Transience
by swaggersaur
Summary: Update 1/30/13: Title: Marlboro. "You kill me, Becky. You know that? You kill me." He softly laughs, still staring up at the sky. "If I don't, the cigarettes eventually will." She replies, still rolling the cigarette between her fingers. /Part of a series of Beckdam Oneshots.
1. Fix You

_**A.N.**__ Posting up multiple one-shots separately can get irritating for readers so I thought for my Beckdam kicks, I'd place most of the one-shots here. Yup. The inspiration for this one came from me rediscovering my Coldplay playlist in some obscure folder in my computer. I am lame but what else is knew? Eagerly awaiting inevitable Beckdam. Read, enjoy, and __**review**__! _

* * *

**_Fix You._**

His eyes are closed and his arms are crossed across his chest, back against the door. He cornered you into the stage props closet and you can't help but nervously pick at the script in your hands. A minute passes, but still he remains ever so quiet. A faint sigh escapes him and you have to stop yourself from ripping the script into pieces. You're so anxious.

"What are you trying to do to me?"

Tired. He sounds tired, too tired. You almost want to push aside all the prop boxes resting on the small mattress in the corner of the closet and tuck him in. It reminds you of your parents, who would pray for hours at their bedside until you wanted nothing more than to toss them onto the bed and force them to sleep. They would always look so lethargic the morning after that you would frequently shake your head and mutter to yourself, "I should've." You never did, though.

"Fix you."

You try to keep your voice warm and your words simple. He's a nice kid. It's just that he was made a girl, so why was he parading around like he was a boy? It's a shame, you think, because the lengthy conversations you held with the boy only furthered your belief that if he wasn't acting against his natural inclinations and walking around like a gender confused freak show, he could have been your best friend. You two could have been close.

"Trust me, I'm fixing myself just fine."

He mutters, reaching into his bag and pulling out a small vial of some foreign liquid. You squint to get a better view of it, but the print is so small and your vision can only be so good.

"It's testosterone. I'm fixing myself. God made a mistake and I'm fixing it for him. You're welcome, God."

He continues, and the dry humor doesn't go unnoticed by you. At his words, you feel livid. Trying your best to not feel offense, you squeeze out the next words with difficulty.

"God doesn't make mistakes."

Raising his eyebrow at you, his lips curl to a slight smirk and you want to slap it off him.

"He doesn't!"

"Yeah, well, you seem to forget about me."

"You're not a _mistake_."

You're getting defensive now, and your voice is rising. You don't want to start anything with this boy; he's been your biggest supporter in this school. Whenever that Eli boy you've been forced to work with yelled at you, he always managed to calm the guy down. He's always been gentle with you and you've always felt this weird flutter in your stomach and your steps around him. Still, you hate how he's trying to oppose your beliefs, beliefs you've held dear since you were born.

"Oh, no, _I'm_ not the mistake. Only the gender aspect of me is. But like I said before, I'm fixing it."

"God does not make mistakes! The way you were born was the way he intended you to be!"

"So how are you going to "fix me," huh? I'd like to know."

"I can open your eyes. I can make you see it's not a mistake and you're supposed to be this. The way you were born is not the mistake. This Adam thing is the mistake."

"Look."

He's sighing and you can hear anger rising in his voice.

"You might have had it easy or maybe you've had it rough. I'm not here to judge you and tell you my life is this huge hole of hell or something. But I've lived all of my life thinking of myself like you did… this Adam guy was this huge mistake and it came to a point where I wanted to fix myself. I tried, you know. Fixing myself. I wanted to fix Adam for Gracie."

"And?"

You're waiting for him to continue.

"And the doctors said I was lucky I survived."

Quiet.

"And then I learned I'm not the mistake. Gracie was. And I can fix Gracie. I can get rid of as much as her as possible with testosterone, with surgery. But Adam? He's not the mistake. He's me. I can't get rid of him even if I wore dresses and put on nail polish and dated boys. And if I want to fix Adam, I can't do it alive, because I am Adam. This brain is Adam. This life is Adam. This soul is Adam. This heart is Adam. I _am_ Adam."

Another silence.

"If you want to fix me… If you want to get rid of Adam, you're better off grabbing a gun and shooting me dead."

"God doesn't make mistakes."

You're whispering now, because you don't know what else to say.

"Maybe you're right."

Looking up in shock, you watch as he thoughtfully taps his chin, deep in thought.

"Maybe we're looking at this wrong. I mean, think of people born with disabilities. Was it a mistake? Or an obstacle. I mean, a lot of people with disabilities went above and beyond, right? And people born into desolate homes or with terrible monetary problems. Were they God's mistakes? A lot became successful. Maybe God meant for me to be born this way, you know. Maybe the mistake is in society and its views. This body is my disability, my broken home. My body needs to be fixed, yeah, but so does your way of thinking, Becky."

You're quiet as he leans back against the door, grinning sadly at you. For a few quiet moments, you stare at him, analyzing. Long hair, frilly dress, makeup… it just doesn't look _right_ on him. Sighing, you blink and stare at him again. He's not the most rugged looking boy you've ever met; his hair is always neatly waxed to the side and his clothing is proper and trim. His posture isn't particularly upright and he never really gives off an air of unbound masculinity. But you can't help think he's still handsome.

"Okay. Then maybe you're not a mistake. Maybe you're just broken."

"Is there really a difference?"

His voice drops low and he looks away from you, displeased. You've heard stories about him before; he was the talk of the halls a little under a year ago. He'd been through a lot and you somehow feel a twang of regret for confronting him like this. God wasn't particularly a hateful guy. Maybe that's how you were coming off, though.

"God doesn't _hate_ you."

You whisper, standing up and walking a few feet away from him.

"Well, he sure has a funny way of showing me how much he loves me. These past few years have been nothing but trouble for me, you know. I've been broken, yeah. Plenty of times. My body's been broken, my mind's been broken, and my heart's been broken. It's nothing new."

He turns and his eyes are staring right into yours, but they're different, soft. You're lost for a few seconds for you've never really met eyes quite like his. Eyes filled with no animosity, no judgment. Instead, they're confused, hurt, and right in the center of it all, loving, and you've never felt this urge to disappear before.

"Maybe you should just give me a chance to try. You know, fixing you."

"You _can't_."

"I can't fix your body like you plan to. I can't fix your mind because I can barely tell what you're thinking. But I can try fixing your heart."

"I already told you that God can't fix this."

Anger flares up in his beautiful eyes, but you still can't detect a trace of hatred. You're surprised how lithe he is when he grabs your hand, a hand you didn't realize was resting on his shoulder, and pushes it away. He's mad but you're desperate now.

"I didn't say God. I said _me_."

Your voice cracks a little and you're scared because what you're about to do could potentially get God really mad at you. Well, at least that's what your pastor always taught, but you're not particularly sure because you, personally, don't think he'd get mad over something so simple as-

Grabbing his shoulders, you pull yourself towards him and gently, your lips fall upon his. Something sparks inside of you when he slowly responds to your kiss and you feel giddy, almost. This is different, you think, because you thought you'd feel disgusting, sinful. Whenever you did anything bad, you'd always hear the lingering whispers of _"this is wrong" _but this time, you can't. You try but you just _can't_.

-as love.

You pull away and fall into his embrace, and in the quiet, you whisper.

"Will this fix you?"

You imagine he's smiling as he pulls in closer to you.

"It just might."

And all you can taste is his lips.


	2. Scene I: Act V

_**A.N.**__ Heavy symbolism because why not. Read and Review._

**Title: Act I, Scene V**

* * *

He can't walk through the halls without one of his friends grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him close.

"She's trouble." They say.

"She's crazy."

"Stay away from her."

And the angry glares reflected through the halls scare him because he knows. He knows and the click-clack of her shoes makes his heart drop to his stomach and he runs. And the wild way her hair flows back when she turns is dangerous. He doesn't want a part in his own destruction; he wants to draw his sword, sheath his fear.

* * *

She heard about him. A lot, actually. Her parents crossed their arms and scoffed; she followed suit. An able sinner with a heart of gold- false idols shine brighter in the sun. Brother dear promised to keep her safe from evil.

Unnecessary evils.

"He's not normal." He'd laugh.

"He's a freak."

"Stay away from him."

And she nodded her head and walked with her nose turned up, turned up high so her eyes wouldn't stop at the sight of-

Her heart stopped too.

* * *

It's dark backstage and he's alone. He's stumbling now, the dark makes for a perfect cover, and he knows there's someone else there, on the stage, singing. It's late and he's tired but her voice is so bright and so sad and so… Falling over props and pieces, he's on stage now. He can't sing but he can try.

Hate tries to stay but it doesn't know where it belongs.

She must hate him; he can try.

The song ends and he draws closer and slips his fingers through hers, shyly and slowly. A small grin breaks through when she grabs tight.

"You do wrong your hand too much."

Her hands fit perfectly in his.

* * *

"She's insane."

"He's a sinner."

Words, words. They forget them sometimes when they retreat to their own silence, a place where words couldn't. She's scared, he thinks, but he's ready to hold her and go. The ground was covered with walls and trenches but the sky was sprinkled with stars that crossed. Maybe they could fly.

"I barely know you."

"I knew you all my life."

"You didn't."

"I feel it."

_From my lips, by yours, my sin is purged._

The blonde hair between his fingers feels soft and the warm lips under his feel distant. Eyes closed, he releases his ties and she follows him up, up, up with the stars and the clouds and the moon. A second of bliss and she hopes he never lets go.

_Then have my lips the sin that they took._

Should she be scared? Would she face hell? She doesn't know but if this was a sin, hell couldn't be that bad, could it?

_Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!_

The racing beats of their hearts feel almost connected and through laced fingers and bound lips, she whispers her love. They're moving fast, maybe, but their hands can keep up.

"Give me my sin again."

* * *

They're pulling and pulling and he can't break free. His fingers are blindly groping at the air, inches away from hers. The dark surrounds them and he wonders if he's still alive, he wonders if he's being dragged to hell. She wonders if she could follow.

"That's you, always you," They're chiding him, "That's you, loving what we hate."

Tears prick his eyes and he wants to leave but the chains they cross through his heart and around him suffocate him and they're drowning him. Drowning him with their words and hate and for a moment, he believes them. And his body drags him down but he's swimming, swimming to the light. His arms break surface.

"That's you, always you," They taunt him, "Thinking of only yourself."

It feels like a shove and down, down, down he drowns, hitting the rock bottom.

He just wants to breathe again.

* * *

She's not one to fall in love.

But she fell down the wrong way- a deep ditch and she wants out, but her parents are there. Her brother is there. They're grabbing her arms and her legs and tying a rag over her mouth and covering her eyes with their hands. All she hears is bible verses upon bible verses and their voices become growls and she thinks they will devour her. She tries to scream but the people at the surface can only hear her parents and they laugh and spit.

"Disgusting bitch." They scream down the trench.

"You are hateful and ignorant."

She wants out. She wants to fall right.

_My only love sprung from my only hate._

* * *

When she's in his arms, she feels safe. He removes her blindfold and their gag and she removes his chains. They are surrounded by voices and monsters and forests.

_Too early seen unknown, and known too late._

She dips her dagger in poison and leads him deeper into the forest. Maybe they can leave.

She suggests they might fall together.

_Prodigious birth of love it is to me,_

_That I must love a loathed enemy._

Their screams are still resounding and their yells and kicks and scorn resonate through the forest, but he smiles. Sound doesn't travel as fast as they. She asks what he means when he tosses her weapon aside and captures her lips in his.

He suggests they fly.


	3. Counting Seconds

**Counting Seconds**

* * *

You don't do it consciously.

Counting, you mean. The first time you can recall counting was in the doctor's office, patiently waiting for the nurse to bring you the testosterone, the climax of your adolescence. When the needle filled with the clear liquid, a thought flashed in your head. 16 years, 5 months, 1 week, 3 days, 12 hours, 31 minutes, and 10 seconds. That's how long you've lived so far. That's how long you've lived without _this_.

"You ready?" She asked.

"I've been ready." You smiled.

You're not the smartest out there and you're hardly considered a genius and numbers aren't usually your thing. You only know the multiplication tables to 11 and you're always off tempo without a metronome so you know it's not numbers you're retaining. It's time. Subconsciously you're counting down the hours and minutes and seconds of everything important to you without even realizing it. It's a strange talent and you're a little proud of it, although you've never bragged. It's your little hidden skill and the only thing you hate about it is that you can't control when it happens; you can't control when you begin subconsciously counting down in your head and when you try, you always end up messing up the numbers and cursing to yourself.

But when it does happen, you can feel it in the pit of your tummy and lately, you've taken to counting along with yourself. It's ridiculous and you're probably delirious but it's exciting and it's nice knowing what you're subconsciously considering to be important.

Like 2 years, 11 months, 2 weeks, 2 days, 7 hours, 2 minutes, and 35 seconds.

That's how long it took you to grow big enough balls to ask her out. Your friends wouldn't stop talking about how she changed from a bible-thumping bigot to the LGBT club's chief straight ally, and Eli in particular wouldn't stop wiggling his eyebrows whenever she hugged you in the halls. You were too scared back then because even if she did accept you, you thought she probably didn't see you as a man. You were insecure and you were nervous but she was beautiful and senior prom only came once.

A rose behind your back and a knock on fair Juliet's window later, you had a prom date.

The petrifying climb up Eli's rickety old ladder was worth every creak because seeing her blue dress match with your blue bowtie made your heart thump and your mouth dry up. There was one condition; you promised Eli that you would ask her out, officially, after the slow dance.

You don't remember what song they were playing but you do remember her grabbing your hand and pulling you to the dance floor and you do remember your eyes looking everywhere else but her and you definitely remember how long that dance was.

2 minutes and 52 seconds.

Nervously, you caught her eye and finally opened your mouth.

3 minutes and 2 seconds later, you had a girlfriend.

3 minutes and 7 seconds later, you had your lips on hers and her hand in yours.

It would take another 5 years, 8 months, 1 week, 4 days, 14 hours, and 9 seconds to put a ring on it.

But by then, you had already finished college and had undergone multiple surgeries. Becky wanted to live in a suburban area with a lot of trees and roads and you were happy to oblige. The two of you flipped through hundreds of magazines until you found it. The perfect home. Leaving Canada was both exhilarating and terrifying but you agreed with Becky when she said there were more job opportunities in the small town you were looking to move to. A beige colored beautiful house, a pet husky named Joey, a young couple with high-paying jobs, and a lovely garden in the back yard. You thought you couldn't be any happier.

Arguing with Becky was a rarity; you were willing to calm down and listen and she was willing to change perspective. Fights usually lasted less than an hour and compromise came easily to the both of you. After all, the whole relationship started on a compromise. You gave her all your love and a home and a heart and she gave up her name and her views. She was still Christian, and devoutly at that, but the day she cut ties with her parents, who condemned you from the moment they discovered your transgendered status, she sniffed and shook her head. You remember asking her if she wanted to break up. 3 seconds felt like 3 hours.

"Never. All I need is you."

That's why it caught you by surprise when you found Becky in her room, arms wrapped around her legs and eyes focused on a small album in front of her.

"It's your family album. I found it in one of those boxes we never opened since we moved here."

"Oh, that's nice. Was it from the wedding?"

"Yep. I think it's the present your mom gave us."

The album was opened to one of the pages, a picture of a younger Mrs. Torres smiling in a hospital gown, holding a newborn baby Adam in her arms on the left and a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Torres smiling next to a Christmas tree, a younger Adam and Drew wrestling underneath it. You smiled at the pictures but frowned when you looked up to see an upset smile on Becky's face.

"Becky…"

"I'm being greedy and irrational, I know-"

"You're not, Becky. I know you miss your family-"

"It's… it's not my family I miss right now."

Her voice was filled with so much emotion and you almost didn't want to ask her the next question.

"Then whose family do you miss?"

"Ours."

"If you want, we can call up mom and-"

"Not your family, Adam. Ours."

The two of you move on from that conversation and one month later you found yourself sitting on a park bench, arm draped over your wife as she rested her head on your shoulder. The weather was nice and the park had beautiful trees sprouting out of the ground, filling your sight with an overabundance of pink, yellow, and green. Normally, those colors weren't your favorite but against the baby blue of the sky, you were enraptured.

You were so absorbed in the sheer magnificence of the flowers drizzled along the trees that you almost didn't see the soccer ball fly through the air towards you. Before it could contact you, your wife's hand shot up and grabbed it and you felt immensely grateful. A small boy who looked no older than six ambled up towards the two of you and stared at your wife.

"Is this your ball, little guy?" You asked with a smile.

"Yeah." He replied, rubbing his nose on the sleeve of his shirt.

"Here you go!" Your wife was practically radiating when the boy flashed a wide smile and thanked her before another couple ran into view.

"There you are! Charlie, please stay close to your mommy and daddy, okay?"

The young couple thanked you and Becky and before walking away, they shook both your hands, happy to see another young couple in town.

"New to town, huh?"

"Yep. Moved here from Canada just a few months ago."

"Maybe one day your child and our Charlie can have a play date or something! It's good to see another young couple around."

"We don't have a child." You quickly said.

"Oh… well, we understand! Just married and just moved; it wouldn't make sense to have a child just now! But that's perfect! When you have a child, we could give you some of our baby items Charlie's outgrown!"

"That's kind of you. Thanks." The couple was generous and you didn't want to offend them.

"No problem."

"You gotta have a boy 'cause girls have cooties and I don't wanna play with a girl." Charlie whined, "And I don't like playing with Johnnie. He's mean. So you gotta get a boy fast."

"Charlie, kids don't just come out of nowh-" The embarrassed father tried to interject.

"So a boy, okay, ma'am?"

"Well, of course, Charlie."

There was a faint smile on her face as the words left her lips and you could see the bottom of her lip quiver for a split second.

She cried for 2 hours, 37 minutes, and 11 seconds that night.

You counted.

Becky Baker doesn't cry much. She's always smiling but you couldn't help but think she was only smiling for you. There was something missing in her eyes and it was missing since the day of the wedding. You wonder if she's unhappy but you know her smile is genuine and you wonder if she's angry but you know her laughter is real. A week after the incident, the moment you came home from work you grabbed her gently by the arms and in her shock, your lips caught hers. She melted into your touch like she always did and when she reached out for you, you gently pushed her hands above her head. Today was for her.

Sex was about pleasure and love and you wanted everything and anything to be felt by her because you wanted to fill in whatever the hell was missing and you wanted her to be happy, completely happy, like she used to be. Naked, you straddled her and kissed her neck and made her feel. Naked, stripped bare, cold, you made her feel because you didn't want to.

And when you felt yourself penetrating her and when you heard her moans get louder, the knot in your stomach felt tighter and tighter. How am I so, you felt yourself wonder, so incomplete? How much things, you felt yourself think, do I take away from her? That knot in your stomach felt a lot like sadness and just before the climax, you could see tears on your wife's face. Surprised, you slowed your tempo and wondered to yourself why she was crying. It wasn't until you tasted salt on your tongue that you realized she wasn't.

You lowered your head on her chest and your limbs grew sore and weak and as she came down from her high, her eyes opened and silently, she wrapped her arms around you. Naked, stripped bare, cold, you wept like a child, the rise and fall of your wife's chest your only comfort. Your body shook and you could feel your eyes overflow and you could hear yourself babble on, trying to say words that even you couldn't understand. Silently, your wife held you and you wished you could understand why you were breaking down.

"I'm sorry." You repeated over and over again, "I'm sorry."

For 26 minutes and 2 seconds you repeated that same phrase, trying to make sense of yourself and trying to push back down that immense sadness that lingered above you and below you and inside of you. And still she held you and kissed you on the top of your head over and over again, and finally you could feel sleep overtake you.

"You would've made a great mother." You whispered right before sleep grabbed you away.

And again, she said nothing because she knew something you didn't. Today was for you.

It was exactly 2 years, 2 months, 1 week, 2 days, 3 minutes, and 19 seconds into your marriage the day the papers you filed for came back with a stamp marked approval. Your wife was ecstatic and anxious and you were too the moment you pulled into the driveway of the hospital. The building was a bit on the small side, almost the size of a big house, and your wife nervously grabbed your hand as the both of you walked in.

"You're Mr. and Mrs. Torres, yes?"

A short, young woman with red hair and freckles smiled at your wife and looked through the documentations you held, a bit damp from the amount of sweat on the surface of your palms.

"Follow me."

The two of you followed the young woman past a few doors, reaching a small room marked A202.

"Here's the baby. She was abandoned at birth and she's only a few months old. We've reviewed your application for adoption and you both seem like the perfect fit. Please take good care of her."

"T-thank you so much. We'll love her with everything we've got. Does she have a name?" You remembered stuttering out.

"Well, we call her Jenny, after the woman who found her, but she hasn't got an officially documented name yet."

"Jenny… Jenny's fine. It's a beautiful name." Your wife was smiling as the nurse gently placed the baby in her arms and when you hugged the both of them, that knot in your stomach untangled and you felt like that missing _something_ was filled.

"Jenny Torres." You laughed, loving the way it rolled off your tongue.

"The start of our family." Your wife whispered, looking up at you with a bright smile and tears in the corners of her eyes.

Before you knew it, the both of you were crying, crying in the middle of a hospital two miles away from home, in front of a slightly worried middle-aged nurse, holding each other and the baby and laughing at how ridiculous this must look but crying at how amazing this felt.

Your wife turned to you and smiled, really smiled. Despite everything the two of you overcame and everything the two of you had yet to overcome, she had and still has a sparkle in her eyes you would have died to see, and it hasn't left for the past 3 years, 6 months, 3 weeks, 4 days, 11 hours, 4 minutes, and 8 seconds… 9 seconds… 10 seconds…

You're still counting.


	4. Terrify

_A.N. They kiss. I knew it I knew it I knew it. I knew it. I'm not even surprised. I knew it. Damn it I love this ship. My (lame) take on Beckdam based on the new promos that were just released. Let's hope for the best once the new episodes air. I'll go back and correct grammar later. Side note, I love how ff lets you use smaller fonts; too bad I can't force this story to default in a smaller font. Please read and leave a comment! Also, beckdambeckdambeckdam._

* * *

**Terrify **

_"Will you be my secret boyfriend?"_

Sometimes, he's glad he said yes.

Most times, he wishes he hadn't.

* * *

"Hey." _You're so beautiful._

"Hi." _You're so wonderful._

"How are you?" _I want you._

"I'm doing good, but I have to go. I'll catch you later?" _I need you._

Simple conversations. But in his eyes she can read everything. In her eyes he can see everything. Simple handshakes and simple greetings. They barely pass as friends and he hates that. He hates how the twinkle in her eyes glues him in place and how he has to force himself to look away. He hates how the boys in school look her up and down and how he can't do anything about it. He hates how his friends tell him he should stay away and how, in the same day, he has her pinned to the wall behind the bleachers after school. He wishes he could mark his name with kisses and he wishes he could stand on top of those bleachers that hide him and hold her until the boys stop staring. But she loves how everyone thinks they're just friends.

In the dark of the theater, her guard drops and she doesn't hesitate to lay her head on his shoulder, to hide in his embrace whenever she feels afraid. Mostly, he tries to focus on the screen, tries to keep his mind off the girl by his side, the girl who he can't get enough of. Her kisses are tender and chaste and he can practically taste her smile. Her arms feel warm and he loves getting lost in them. He loves how perfectly his own arms wrap around her waist and how she leans into him. He wishes he could see her better; the light of the screen is hardly enough and glimpses of her smile don't do her justice. But she loves how the dark hides them.

And he can only take so much.

"Are you ashamed of me?"

His voice is a bare whisper. It's supposed to be a question but it's almost entirely a statement. The way her eyes flicker down and the way she hesitantly bites her lip gives her away.

It's almost funny to him how although he knew the answer already, seeing it still hurt so much. It feels like there's a giant cloud above his head, and every moment with her had been another sunny day, but the summer's ended. He's not ready for the winter. He's not ready for the storm. So he runs off.

He slams the locker as hard as he can, because he wants to show her what she's done. He wants to show her how badly she hurt him, how suddenly she collided with him, how broken he was feeling. She's left in the hallway, alone, and the last thing he hears is her crying. A scoff escapes his lips and he walks away, refusing to look back because she deserves to cry, she deserves to hurt. Maybe she hasn't hurt for a long time. Maybe that's why she's hurting him now.

But she cries every night.

She cries because she doesn't like how everyone thinks they're just friends.

She cries because she doesn't love how the dark hides them.

She's crying because he thinks she's ashamed of him, because she's not.

She's ashamed of herself.

She's ashamed of how she's unable to grab him by the shoulders like she wants to, ashamed of how she can't scream on the top of her lungs, "_I love him and he's mine_," ashamed of how she can't wrap her mind around _him_, ashamed of how she feels she'd rather die than tell her parents about him, ashamed of how she _can't_. She's ashamed of how scared she feels.

The next day isn't much better and he's not in any of her classes, but a small part of her knows where he is. She always has this hunch. Sneaking outside, she sees him sitting on a bench, eyes still clouded and lips drawn taut. Gathering the courage she barely has, she approaches him and he looks away.

"What do you want?"

She takes a deep breath.

"I'm not ashamed of you, Adam. You're a boy between the ears, where it matters."

He looks at her again and a flutter leaps in her stomach, the way it always does.

"I'm just scared." She whispers.

"What are you scared of?" He still sounds a little angry, but he's softened.

"I'm scared that the world will look at you and they won't see the wonderful boy that I see and they'll say things and I don't understand. I can't understand why people can't just let us be."

"I'm scared too. I'm scared that you'll one day wake up and see me and realize you could do much better and you'll leave and nobody would blink an eye at how broken I'd be because they'd never know you and I were happy, once upon a time."

"I could search the whole world for "_much better_" and I'd just end up finding you again." A grin breaks out on his face and she smiles back because it's true.  
"I'm sorry I'm trying to push you past what you're comfortable with."

"No, it's not you, Adam. It's just… Why can't people just let us be?"

"They just need to fall in love." He laughs, "Maybe if they had what we did, they'd understand."

"You love me?"

"I didn't mean to say that," he sounds a little thoughtful before he continues.

"But I guess I do. I love you."

His words make her want to jump.

"I think I love you too."

She doesn't cry that night.

He tries his best to avoid her at school after that. He doesn't want her to feel scared and he wants her to feel comfortable. She should be feeling better, but she's not. A day without seeing his soft eyes and feeling the warmth of his presence hurts her more than she thought possible. The few times they're together and the midnight phone calls don't feel like enough and she prays almost every day for that fear to leave her. She remembers Bible Camp when she was younger and in particular, a younger councilor with bright red hair and a love of turtles and Labrador Retrievers.

"Why does God say to love him and fear him?" She had asked.

"Fear is sometimes a good thing. You can love and fear. They're not contradictory emotions, hon. It's human... it keeps us human."

Feeling human isn't worth it, she thinks. She hates that heavy feeling of doubt, that nagging, lingering shame that sticks to her lungs and weighs down her breaths. Her phone wallpaper is a picture of them and she lies on her bed staring at it, quickly turning the phone off when her dad knocks. She calls him when her dad goes back downstairs and the moment his voice fills the room, she doesn't feel so bad anymore. She thinks she's happy, and that's enough.

It's at a party at Fiona's loft where she notices that she isn't happy. Not completely. They're sitting on opposite ends of the room, trying their best not to interact too much, and looking at the smiling people around her, she feels cold. The music is almost too loud and she sees herself stealing glances at the boy and before long, she's standing up and walking towards him. Grabbing his hand, she pulls him to the dancing crowd and there's a perplexed but relaxed smile on his face.

Everyone's cheering and everyone's distracted but she isn't. She's focused on the boy in front of her and he's laughing at the turn of events, laughing and how he's here with this beautiful girl. She's not supposed smile so much and she's not supposed to be wrapping her hands around his neck. She's not supposed to but she's wonderfully shocked at how natural it feels, how amazing it feels to not be so ashamed.

"What about me being a secret, Ms. Baker?" He smiles, his forehead on hers.

"Screw secrets."

Leaning forward, she fills the space between them and her lips ghost over his lips before landing on his cheek.

It feels like a movie, just almost, and his arms feel so strong and so tender against her and the only sound she can hear is her own heart thumping. People are beginning to take notice but that's the last thing on her mind when the boy's gentle stare is on her.

"Aren't you scared?" He asks.

"I am." She admits, laughing and nervously biting her lip, "Help me out here, Adam."

"What do you want me to do?" He's confused.

She draws closer as her mouth curves up into a smile and she laughs when he grins, his mouth mirroring her own. Her hands softly grasp the back of his neck and he slowly leans forward, his lips just centimeters away from hers.

"Terrify me."


	5. Marlboro

**Author's Note**: Wrote this early December. I'm happy to say I've broken my own smoking addiction very recently. The new year's looking up. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

"Is that what I think it is?"

He turns to her and smiles as she takes a seat beside him on the curb and snatches the cigarette from his mouth.

"It's not lit."

"Still, you had the _intent_ of smoking it."

"Not really. I just felt like putting it in my mouth."

"You're exasperating sometimes."

"So most times I'm not?"

Silence falls as quickly as dusk and she tries to placate the unrest in her stomach by rolling the cigarette between her fingers.

"Smoking is bad for you."

"A lot of things are bad for you."

"Yeah, but cigarettes are _proven_ to be bad for you."

"Like how I'm _proven_ to be bad for you?"

"Adam…"

"Forget it." He forces a laugh and crosses his arm across his chest, softly breathing out and studying his cold breath against the black night.

"Sometimes I wonder, you know, that maybe somewhere… somewhere far away… like France or something... there's another person sitting on a curb, looking up at the sky, smoking a cigarette. I'd like to know what the hell he's thinking about right now. I'd like to know if maybe he's thinking the same things I am."

"France is a long way from here. I'm pretty sure he'd have other things on his mind."

"I don't know. Love and the lack of it is a universal thing." He shakes his head and leans back, staring at the barely visible stars.

"Yeah, well, for his sake, let's hope the French guy has someone stealing his cigarettes too."

"You kill me, Becky. You know that? You kill me." He softly laughs, still staring up at the sky.

"If I don't, the cigarettes eventually will." She replies, still rolling the cigarette between her fingers.

"But of course." Nodding slowly, he smirks, "Unlit cigarettes are the menace to society, only second to the homosexuals and the transgendered boys and girls. "

"You know I don't believe that." Frowning, she turned towards him, "I don't believe that."

"Yeah."

"I really don't!"

"Three months. We dated for three months. Was I that terrible?"

"You weren't! You were… terrific."

"And then out of the blue you dropped me like a bad habit."

"I don't-" He snatches the cigarette back from her hands.

"Like I was nothing but this to you."

"I don't hate you. I was scared. I was… I loved you so much. I felt addicted to you."

"So you quit me. Fine. But I'm not a fucking cigarette. I'm not a bad habit. I'm a person, Becky. Damn it, I'm a fucking person."

"Adam…" He pulls out a lighter and lights the cigarette, holding it to his mouth to erase the empty cold around him.

"Marlboro. Maybe I should change my name to that. Marlboro Torres, the human cigarette, blown and burned and trashed by the woman he loved."

"Stop it!" She's fighting tears as she grabs for the cigarette between his teeth.

"It's just a damned cigarette, Becky. I'll toss it away when I'm done with it. Aren't you familiar with that? I'll let it make me feel good. I'll let it burn for me. And then I'll put it out when I'm satisfied."

"I-" Her lip quivers and he feels a bit guilty but he doesn't allow himself to feel. He can't.

"I want to hate you," Shaking his head, he turns to her, "Every day, I want to hate you."

Eyes tearing, she turns away from him, trying her best not to let any of the tears drop.

"But I can't."

Hand shaking from the cold, he wipes the lone tear that escapes her eyes and sighs.

"And the cigarettes burn my lips like how you used to," His voice is fragile, "Can't you see I need this?"

"Adam, I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Just… just let me finish this cigarette, alright?"

She blinks, trying to clear her vision, finally resorting to using her arm to wipe the tears obstructing her view of him. The sight of him smoking, the empty look in his eyes, the desperation in his fingers, and the sadness in his smile breaks her heart. She doesn't feel happy without him; she thought she was doing the right thing back then. He wasn't supposed to be for her. It wasn't supposed to work.

Or maybe it was. Maybe she was just an idiot. Maybe she was just a coward.

"Adam-" She grabs the cigarette from his mouth and before he can react, she captures his lips with her own.

Despite the smoky taste of his mouth, she wants more. She wants him, she wants him so bad. She misses his warmth, his smile, his hands, his eyes, his everything. She misses this.

It takes a few seconds to register that he hasn't moved.

"I… I'm sorry."

She gets up as quickly as the cold would permit but before she can take a step, a hand reaches out and holds her back.

"I thought you said I was bad for you." He says when she faces him, the cigarette crushed on the ground, forgotten.

"Yeah, well, a cigarette is bad for you too, and I figure a kiss is the lesser of two evils." She mumbles an excuse, blushing when he grins at her.

"Oh."

"I love you." The words pour from her mouth, "I never stopped. I think about you constantly. I'm just so scared that you'll… you'll find someone else. You'll meet someone else and won't want me anymore. I never felt that before. I'm so scared to lose you so I thought that if I let you go now, I wouldn't have to be so scared all the time."

"Did it work?" He asks.

"No. I was so scared of losing you that I ended up leaving you." She lets out a faint laugh, "God, that sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. I was frightened of being hurt that I allowed the both of us to be. I'm a self-fulfilling prophecy, that's what."

"So you love me still?"

"I do. And it's scary because it's out of my control, Adam." She answers honestly, laughing at herself, "It's out of my control."

"You hurt me. When you left, you really hurt me. You broke me down. I felt like dying. I think a part of me did."

"I… I should go. I'm sorry." She makes a motion to leave again but he pulls her into his arms.

"I still love you, Becky. I'm happy you're here. I'm happy you said that you still love me too."

"I've been so terrible to you, Adam. I'm sorry, I need to go." She feels tears forming at her eyes again, but he responds gently, looking her in the eyes.

"You want to leave now? I've got a whole pack of Marlboro's in my pocket, you know. Am I allowed to smoke them?" Jokingly, he grins at her.

"Of course not!" She softly smacks his arm, smiling at him.

"You've got to help me out, then, Becky. I can't drop this bad habit alone. You'll help me, right?" He leans closer to her.

"Yeah." She whispers, her eyes transfixed by his own, subconsciously licking her own lips as he draws closer.

"Good."

"What are you going to do about those Marlboros, Adam?"

"The guy in France can have them."

She laughs.

He finishes off the distance between them, and as their lips collide once more, she melts into his arms. She almost misses him murmur into her mouth, too absorbed by his warm lips and his loving embrace.

"My lips were getting a little tired of cigarettes. They don't burn enough."

She tries to respond but her words get lost in her mind when his arms wrap around her waist.

He's right.

She feels it.

Fire.


End file.
